Cracking Crows

Don't let the crows peck fear into the heart the "murder" will offer a bouquet and a smile but they're nothing but the barbs on a bribe they'll even share a branch and drop of rye talk sweetly-as long as you sing in their choir but go out of tune-they'll remove your tongue pluck your eyes like berries in the cold sun put a crown of thorny lies around your head After your last free breath, they'll caw you dead. I plead you to turn the other cheek but follow through with a baseball bat and crack their dirty feathered heads.